


Seige

by nightram



Series: Brienne Lavellan [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adamant, Adamant Fortress, F/M, Homemade remedies, Implied vomit, Lyrium Withdrawals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 10:22:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5044657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightram/pseuds/nightram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adamant was a carefully planned and executed battle in the Inquisition's history, but it did not come without cost. It forced scenes long buried to be relived, and shook once solid confidence.</p><p>Inquisitor Lavellan never witnessed a seige before, let alone remembered falling into the Fade the first time. With her memories regained plus new, fearful ones grown, the Inquisitor finds her tailored image of herself crumbling. The stress and exertion of the battle comes at a poor time for Commander Cullen and his withdrawals which had been well noted by most if not all the Inner Circle, but still he would not reach beyond The Seeker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seige

**Author's Note:**

> I'd written an intro (which I'd posted) of my take on Adamant previously, but it needed another look at and this is the result. Will be looking to add more to this. Tags will be added as story progresses.

Every time she closed her eyes all she saw was the Nightmare staring back at her. She’d spent hours lying bundled up in her bedroll trying to ignore the greedy monster watching her hungrily. The air had long grown cold, the heat of the sand oozing up through the canvas tarp serving as a floor in her tent.

Her fingertips still felt numb and she couldn’t stop focusing on the breath escaping her lungs. No matter how much she took in, she still felt starved for air. The unwilling journey through the Fade had done more than put the Inquisitor on edge. Tonight she did not dof her prosthetic leg, something she will regret well into the next day. She knew she was safe, but a quiet and assured voice nestled in the back of her head, reminding her “ _what if?_ ”. Lavellan would not allow herself to be without mobility. Not mere hours after Adamant.

She continues to hold her eyes closed, wishing for sleep to take her. Her ears still ring from the Archdemon’s roars, and the screaming Fears she encountered deep within the Nightmare’s lair. Her mind conjures images of torn limbs reaching up from the earth to pull her under, into a shallow grave of wasted lives at her hands. The Nightmare taught her much of what she refused to see. 

Lavellan’s body begins to ache from lying so rigidly, every fibre of every muscle pulled taut beneath her skin and choking her bones. The memory of her blood writing festers, her nerves recalling the slow, consistent burn. The tattooed veins crackle on the surface of her; her mind determined to keep her awake one way or another.

What was that noise?

She holds her breath, straining to listen. There’s still soldiers quietly chattering, the occasional obnoxious guffaw. Sometimes a miserable cry will erupt from the triage tents. The coals from the firepit beyond her tent opening are hissing and spitting. There, she heard it again. Something akin to a cough.

With effort, the elf props herself up and rubs at bloodshot eyes. Sweeping her hair back out of her face, she turns an ear in the direction of the sound.

Nothing.

She sighs, her curiosity outweighing her lingering trepidation. What was she worried about? That she’d step foot outside and find the Breach having swallowed the dirt up to her tent? Ridiculous. Shaking her head, she plucks a thick bearskin pelt from her bedroll, drapes it over her shoulders and slips on her boots.

There are some soldiers still awake around the campsite. Some are on night watch, other’s simply unable to rest like most others hidden away in their tents. Trudging through the sand, the Inquisitor makes her way towards the firepit. Her companions, Commander, and ranking Lieutenants had set-up in the same area near the fortress wall which blocked the most of the gale force winds.

She kneels down, reaching her fingertip into the coals and conjures an ember to respark the fire. Holding her palms out and waits for the warmth to seep in. Unexpectedly, the distinct sound of retching reaches her ear, and she hears something wet splash on metal. The noise turns her stomach. Swivelling on the balls of her feet she looks around and notices a dull glow emanating from within Commander Cullen’s tent.

Lavellan had noticed that some days the Commander was unwell -- he’d be clammy and irritable, a pinch in his brow between many cups of water in what she assumed to be an attempt to stave off a headache. He’d be stiff, his knuckles every so slightly swollen as he fumbled with documents in War Council meetings. They were close, her and Cullen. She’d never asked about his ailing health though; she trusted he’d tell her if necessary.

Glancing around, Lavellan wondered if anyone else had awoken to check on him. With not a single candle or lamp lit she determined the answer easily and made her way towards the lit tent.

Coming to stand at the hanging tarp flaps, she leans her ear closer. Laboured breathing is all she can hear. “Commander Cullen?” she murmurs, careful not to draw much attention for his sake, “are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” is the clipped response from within.

“I heard you from my tent.” Lavellan steals another glance around the camp. “Do you need some water?”

“I’m,” the Commander’s voice is hoarse. She can imagine the shade of green on his face just from the tone. “I’m sorry I woke you. I’ll be f-.” The elf quickly covers her ears to avoid the sound of Cullen losing the rest of his supper.

“You’re not fine.” Clenching and unclenching her fists, the Inquisitor stands awkwardly by his tent. Sickness was something she readily avoided, especially regarding the _shemlen_. Their illnesses bred quickly and with ease within their villages and cities. They were something the Dalish readily feared. Living in the Free Marches, she had often seen the diseased bodies from the Elven Alienages left beyond the city walls to burn. Isolated living prevented exposure to things like Saint’s fire or red plague, rendering her resistance to such things nonexistent. She isn’t sure what to do. “I will bring you something to drink.”

There is something said in reply, but the Inquisitor is quick to flee. She makes her way away from her corner of camp and treks towards the supplies tent located near the centre. Some soldier’s salute her as she passes, she nods at them in turn.

Slipping into the dark makeshift storeroom, Lavellan lifts her marked hand and urges the Anchor to glow a little brighter. The soft green light is enough for her to see where the water tankers are and the dried herbs hanging from the supports. Grabbing the bladder from her belt, she pops off the cap and holds it under a tapped barrel and hastily fills it to bursting. Looking around, she tries to spy some elfroot and maybe some dawn lotus if she’s lucky. Surely they won’t notice if she takes only a little -- just enough to ease a troublesome stomach. She wastes no time gathering what she needs and returns to Cullen’s tent.

“Are you still in there?” she asks softly, “you should get some fresh air if so.” A grunt, then some shuffling. The Inquisitor straightens herself and watches the fire while she waits.

When Commander Cullen emerges, his hair is tousled and his cheeks are gaunt. There are purple marks under his bloodshot eyes. His loose white tunic sticks to his arms and back, his furred mantle pulled over his shoulders haphazardly. 

The smell of sickness seeps out from the stifling tent, and Lavellan whispers a silent prayer for her health. Subtly, she holds her breath. “Come,” she urges Cullen towards the firepit, her fingers grazing his forearm.

“I’m fine,” he repeats -- his voice less weak. He offers no explanation as they perch themselves on a log by the fire, instead choosing to wringing his hands and mumble something to himself. “You need not fuss over me.”

Taking the bladder from her belt once more, Lavellan crushes up the herbs she stole and drops them into the water while ignoring the protests. She swirls the liquid but stifles her actions as she watches Cullen’s face pallor, and turns herself away. Nothing follows thankfully. Heating her palm with a spell, she brings the impromptu remedy to the boil. Popping the cork she smells the mixture and hands it to the Commander, “here.”

Cullen takes it and peers at the contents. “What is it?” He brings his nose to the lip and wrinkles it in response, looking to her with skepticism.

“What your people call a ‘homemade remedy’”, Lavellan gestures for him to drink, the heel of her boot digging into the sand. “It’s a weak broth. It will help settle your stomach and rehydrate you.” Her nimble fingers lace together in her lap as she watches him sip from the bladder. She _is_ curious, has always been, but she won’t ask.

Over Cullen’s shoulder is the silhouette of Adamant Fortress. In the light of the two moons, it’s figure is menacing. She can still remember the bodies skewered on the pikes, the blood running down the stairwells.

She wonders how many battles her Commander has seen -- afterall, he was in Ferelden when the Fifth Blight arose. Lavellan was thankful for never witnessing such a plague personally, but it was entirely possible that she may in the near future thanks to Corypheus’ apparent Archdemon. He rode under the premise of bringing Tevinter to glory, and she wondered, where would he then call his Blight from? Surely not from his supposed homeland, but he seemed the villain who would purge his country to craft the civilisation he aspired for.

“Do you think Corypheus buries his men?” The question wasn’t meant to escape her lips. She scratches her brow, pinching her eyes with a sigh of embarrassment but does not retract her inquiry.

Cullen scoffs. “He lacks humanity,” he grunts, voice gravelly from the bile he swallows. “Darkspawn do not bury their dead.”

Lavellan digs the heels of her boots into the sand, accidentally kicking some into the hot fire. Rolling her shoulders and bouncing her foot, she leans forward to stare into the coals.

Watching her, the Commander takes another swig of the broth. “I’ve always wondered,” he frowns thoughtfully, “do your people have a word for Darkspawn, or the Blight?”

She shrugs and tilts her head to meet her shoulder. “We have little language left,” she admits freely, unashamed, “if we had a word for Darkspawn, I do not know of it, but we call the Blight _Banalhan_. It means ‘the place of nothing’.”

It seems it was Cullen’s turn to ask unintended questions. “When speaking with us, is it difficult to use our words in place of those of the Dalish?” He immediately drags his clammy palm down his face. “I- forgive me, that was entirely condescending.”

With a dismissive wave she shakes her head, turning her attention to the Commander. His colour has returned to his cheeks somewhat, although it appears to be more of a shameful blush than honest complexion. “It’s fine. I understand what you meant.” Scrunching up the side of her mouth, she ponders her answer. “I, yes, sometimes it’s difficult. I always forget your word for, uh,” she gestures her fingers in front of her face, “ _inan_ , um,” she blinks, “these.”

It brought a self-conscious burning to her cheeks when the Commander sniggered. “You mean ‘eyes’?” he chuckled between his smiling teeth. Stealing another sip of the broth he tries his best to smother his mirth. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh at you it’s quite,” an awkward pause, “uh, endearing.”

Now it was the Inquisitor’s turn to chortle at his expense. “Endearing? _Enas’elan... ma’em’udh_?” she wheezes another short laugh, “ _Ma’elan enas ina’lan’ehn’inan,_ Cullen.” 

“Pardon?” Cullen quirks a brow and pulls his furred coat tighter against a gust of wind.

“Don’t worry,” she shakes her head. “I am only teasing you in what butchered Elvhen I know.” Grinning smugly, Lavellan crosses her arms and levels the Commander with a steady gaze to gauge his reaction. He didn’t often share his sense of humour, but when he did it was bitter and delightful.

The Commander shakes his head subtly. “And how often do you speak your mind in Elvhen as opposed to Common?”

“If I knew the word for ‘always’ in Elvhen, now is when I would say it.” Cullen rolls his eyes and the two share a kind chuckle.

With the conversation dwindling, the Inquisitor shuffles forward to the firepit and places more kindling onto the waning flames. Kneeling over the coals, she uses a flame dancing on her fingertip to light the fresh wood. Thankfully the embers take quickly and she blows gently to encourage them. 

Lavellan adjusts her pelt to sit more comfortably on her shoulders as she nestles her back against the log, eagerly taking in the warmth of the fire. She tucks her fingers in between her thighs and shrugs her aching shoulders into a more comfortable position. She can almost forget the blood she scrubbed off until her skin was raw earlier this evening.

Exhaustion nips at her heels but her mind won’t calm. “You should rest,” she mumbles to Cullen, eager to shift her attention away from herself. “You’re not well and today’s been… taxing.”

“ _I_ ought to rest?” the Commander dismisses, almost sardonically. He shakes his head and caps the bladder still in his grip. “Your Worship, I am not the one who faced down an Archdemon, nor traversed the _Fade_. You are in no position to lecture me.”

She wipes her hand down her face with exasperation and tries not to sigh. As First, she had been the overbearing self-righteous figure who always knew best, and becoming Inquisitor had done little to change that.

Lavellan bristles with gritted teeth. “With all due respect Commander Cullen, if you saw the things I saw in the Nightmare’s lair, you wouldn’t want to rest either.”

There is a notable shift in the air. From where he sits in his poorly state, the fine hairs on Cullen’s neck bristle and the fine muscles and tendons around his throat constrict. This was his opportunity to empathise with her, to connect beyond that stifling wall his mind built to keep others out. Especially her. There was still apprehension deep in his gut that chilled whenever her or the other mages of the Inquisition appeared when he was absorbed in reading or simply daydreaming as he paced the halls late at night. 

The Commander understood that they were all people; each individual being on Thedas with their own lives and motivations -- most innocent. But ten years of vicious bad habits were hard to fully shake. The Inquisitor and the magically inclined members of her inner circle where honestly the first of her… _kind_ \-- for lack of a better word -- that compelled him to move beyond his ingrained fear.

He couldn’t bring himself to admit he was afraid for her when she fell from the bridge beneath the Archdemon. Only because it was more than just fear that had him lift his visor and lower his blade, jaw agape, as he struggled to see what was happened from the battlements. Without her the Inquisition would crumble. He would crumb- no. That was unreasonable to even consider. She was no crutch for his shattered ego and ailing body.

Empathy was a strange thing. Cullen could see the same creases that had long since cemented in his face forming in her as she stared emptily into the hot coals. Lavellan was trying to hide herself away, he could see it in her body language; rolled shoulders, slumped neck, withdrawn hands. She was shaken. He wondered what forms her demons had took.

Kneading the nausea from his brows, Cullen rocks forward to prop his elbows on his wide thighs. “Do you… do you need to talk about it?” He was never good at this.

The elf considers his words through her foggy mind. Years had gone into her constructing this formidable barrier between her and her charges, be it her clan or her Inquisition. Yes, the Commander was an entirely capable adult but what if she admitted something that made him consider her unfit to lead? She was already physically disabled, she couldn’t afford to lose marks in psychological integrity. Lavellan shakes her head slowly before dipping to gaze at her lap.

Cullen nods silently in understanding. He places the empty bladder down on the sand beside her, “thank you.” Raking his fingers through his tousled locks, he makes to stand and hesitates. He knew when he was of no use. “If you need me, for any reason, you know where to find me.”

“If you need more,” Lavellan gestures at the bladder. “Let me know. I don’t mind.”

The Commander nods stiffly. “Thank you,” he mutters, flexing his fingers uneasily. A sigh slips between his teeth. “Good night, Inquisitor.”

She steals a glance. “Good night, Commander.”

**Author's Note:**

> Butchered Elvhen translations:  
> " _Enas’elan... ma’em’udh_?” - You think I am cute?  
>  " _Ma’elan enas ina’lan’ehn’inan,_ Cullen.” - I think you have beautiful eyes


End file.
